


In Love With the Night

by Sauronix



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Horror Elements, M/M, Sexual Tension, Vampire AU, Vampire Gladio
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-12
Updated: 2019-02-12
Packaged: 2019-10-26 16:20:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17749277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sauronix/pseuds/Sauronix
Summary: Despite changing his outfit five times in a fit of indecisiveness, Ignis manages to arrive at Gladio’s apartment ten minutes early. He takes a deep breath and runs a hand down the front of his white dress shirt before knocking on the door. After a moment, Gladio answers it, smiling that infectious smile when he sees Ignis, his canines dimpling his lower lip. He looks as dangerously handsome as ever, dressed in a form-fitting grey sweater that clings to his muscular frame, his wavy hair falling rakishly around his face. The warmth in his eyes puts a little flutter in Ignis’s belly.“Iggy,” he says. “Come on in.”When he accepts a job at the Citadel as the prince's advisor, Ignis finds himself enthralled by his charge's Shield—though he soon learns the man he's fallen in love with isn't exactly human.





	In Love With the Night

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waywardmelody](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waywardmelody/gifts).



> This is a gift fic for waywardmelody, who once asked me to co-write a vampire AU with her. This fic is really more of a pale introduction to the idea, an outline of what was supposed to be a much longer story, but I wanted to give her a glimpse into this universe we came up with together. Maybe someday we'll actually write it.
> 
> Way, thanks for your friendship and support. It means so much. <3

Ignis can’t believe his luck when he lands a position as advisor to Prince Noctis. The Lucis Caelum family, which has ruled Insomnia for generations, can only be described as secretive, very rarely allowing outsiders into the fold. At first, Ignis doesn’t think much of this.   
  
He only thanks his lucky stars that the thousands of crowns he spent on his graduate degree in political science won’t go to waste after all.

  
*

  
The prince, he discovers, is moody and recalcitrant. He shuns public appearances, at times seems glued to the couch in his quarters, and he is impossible to rouse from his sleep before noon. On his fifth day at the Citadel, in a fit of exasperation, Ignis yanks open the curtains, allowing daylight to spill directly onto the prince’s bed.   
  
The prince only growls and buries himself deeper under the duvet, hiding from the sunshine.

  
*

  
The rest of the royal family and their retinue remain elusive characters. The king is perpetually ensconced with his advisors behind the heavy oak doors of his office; Ignis has begun to doubt he’ll ever come face to face with Regis or his Shield, the formidable Clarus Amicitia.   
  
But he meets the younger Amicitia—the prince’s bodyguard—in his third week on the job.  
  
To be more precise, he walks squarely into the man’s chest as he’s rounding a corner with a cup of coffee in hand. The plastic lid pops off between them, and warm liquid sloshes out, spilling onto the front of Ignis’s crisp white dress shirt and splattering on the floor. Ignis closes his eyes and lets out a disbelieving sigh as it begins to seep through the fabric.  
  
“Oh, shit. Fuck.” The voice is deep and warm, and mostly apologetic, though Ignis thinks he hears just a hint of amusement underneath. “Hold on, I have a towel in my gym bag.”  
  
Ignis looks up and immediately forgets about the coffee dripping from his fingers. Somehow, he’s managed to stumble into the most beautiful man he’s ever seen—tall and muscular, with a chiseled jaw, golden eyes, and thick lashes. His hair is pulled back into a tight bun at the back of his head, though a few tendrils trail down his neck, dark against his bronze skin. There are black tattoos on his forearms, disappearing under the ends of his three-quarter-length sleeves. They look like they might be feathers.  
  
“Here.” The man pulls a white towel out of his duffel bag and hands it to Ignis. “It ain’t much, but it’s the least I can do. I mean, besides giving you my shirt.”  
  
Ignis accepts the towel and wipes the coffee off his hands, deciding he wouldn’t quite mind if this chiseled specimen were to disrobe on the spot. “I could always send you the dry-cleaning bill,” he says crisply.  
  
“Uh, yeah. No worries.” The man rubs the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. Ignis can’t help but notice how white his teeth are, how sharp his canines. “I’ll pay it.”  
  
“I was being facetious.”  
  
“Yeah, and I was serious.” The man hikes the duffel bag up his shoulder, his eyes searching Ignis’s face. “What’s your number? We can coordinate and I’ll take care of it.”  
  
Ignis sees no reason to deny him—he very much doubts the man wants his number solely for dry cleaning purposes. Stomach fluttering, he opens his notebook and scrawls his number on it, then tears out the sheet and hands it to the man. Their fingers brush as he takes it. The warmth of his skin sends a pleasant shiver down Ignis’s spine.  
  
“Thanks,” he says, flashing another stunning smile. “The name’s Gladiolus, by the way. Gladiolus Amicitia. But you can call me Gladio.”

  
*

  
Gladio texts him that evening.   
  
_anyone ever tell you you have gorgeous eyes?_  
  
Ignis blinks at the phone, utterly at a loss for words, heat flooding his cheeks. Whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t this shameless approach to flirtation.  
  
 _I can’t say they have_ , he eventually replies.  
  
Gladio’s response comes lightning-fast: _well you should be told every day._  
  
Smiling, Ignis closes his laptop lid and stretches out on his bed, already typing another message. _I wouldn’t be opposed from hearing it again from you, if you’re so willing._  
  
Gladio’s next message takes a little longer to arrive. But when it does, Ignis’s heart soars. _you free for lunch tomorrow?_

  
*

  
It becomes something of a ritual. They meet at noon every day in the courtyard behind the Citadel. It’s shaded by soaring oak trees, and Gladio always insists on sitting under them, refusing to move to a bench in the sun when Ignis suggests it. It’s strange, but Ignis is too infatuated to question it much.   
  
Bit by bit, day by day, he unpacks the enigma that is Gladiolus Amicitia. His dedication to weightlifting and martial arts comes as no surprise, but Ignis learns he has an equal passion for history and philosophy. On the rare occasions he has a night off duty, he attends open mic nights at the local coffeehouse, or stays in to drink beer and watch action films. He is a dutiful son and a doting older brother, and his family, he tells Ignis, is more important to him than anything. Ignis finds himself falling a little more hopelessly in love every day.   
  
At first, they keep a respectful distance as they talk, sitting side by side on the lawn. This goes on for a couple of weeks. Then one day, Gladio takes his hand, his thumb gently rubbing over Ignis’s knuckles. It stuns Ignis into silence mid-sentence, makes his breath catch in his throat. It’s what he’s been waiting for since the day they met.   
  
“Got a bottle of wine at my place, and no one to drink it with,” Gladio says, raising an eyebrow roguishly. “Figured maybe you could come over and help me out with it over dinner.”  
  
Ignis clears his throat. “Are you cooking?”  
  
“Yeah. Why, you’d rather go to a restaurant or something?”  
  
“No, no,” Ignis assures him. “I’m just a bit of an amateur chef myself. If you’d like, I can come over early and help you prepare the meal.”  
  
Gladio smiles, something akin to relief in the expression. “Then it’s a date.”

  
*

  
Despite changing his outfit five times in a fit of indecisiveness, Ignis manages to arrive at Gladio’s apartment ten minutes early. He takes a deep breath and runs a hand down the front of his white dress shirt before knocking on the door. After a moment, Gladio answers it, smiling that infectious smile when he sees Ignis, his canines dimpling his lower lip. He looks as dangerously handsome as ever, dressed in a form-fitting grey sweater that clings to his muscular frame, his wavy hair falling rakishly around his face. The warmth in his eyes puts a little flutter in Ignis’s belly.  
  
“Iggy,” he says. “Come on in.”  
  
Ignis steps inside the apartment, casting a discreet, appraising look around the place. It’s small, open-concept, but tidy, with shelves full of books lining one wall of the living room and a couch against the other. Bay windows look out onto the boulevard, though from six floors up, all Ignis can see is the facade of the building across the way. To the left of the door, there’s a small kitchen, separated from the rest of the apartment by an island. A bottle of white wine sits in a stainless steel ice bucket on the counter, and next to it, a roast in a pan.  
  
“Let me take your jacket,” Gladio says.  
  
“Certainly.” Ignis shrugs out of it and hands it to Gladio, rolling up the sleeves of his dress shirt as he steps further into the apartment. The white walls are adorned with framed photos of the city, all shot in a haunting grayscale, and a wooden crate on the bookshelf is full of vinyl records. Curious, Ignis files through them, recognizing only a handful—one bluegrass, another hip hop, a third classical. It would appear that Gladio has eclectic taste. “This is quite the place you have.”  
  
“Yeah.” Gladio comes to stand next to him, close enough that their arms brush together and Ignis catches a whiff of Gladio’s cologne. “It’s a shoebox, but it’s home.” He opens the top of the cabinet next to the bookshelf to reveal a record player. “Got any preferences?”  
  
Ignis plucks the classical record from the box and hands it to Gladio. “Perhaps this one?”  
  
“Celestino’s Fifth, huh?” Gladio grins at him, and that single look sends desire burning through Ignis all over again. “You’ve got good taste, Iggy.”  
  
“Yes, well.” Ignis clears his throat, adjusts his glasses, more pleased than he should be by the compliment. “It seems the most appropriate background music while we prepare our supper.”  
  
“Can’t argue with that.”  
  
Gladio puts the record on the turntable and sets the needle, and brisk violin strains emit from the speakers. Then he gestures at the kitchen. “Shall we?” he says.  
  
Ignis nods and follows him into the kitchen, where the roast is still sitting in the pan. As Ignis considers it, Gladio pulls down two wine glasses from the cupboard, setting them on the counter next to the ice bucket.  
  
“I think we should have a toast,” Gladio says as he takes the bottle of wine and pours a bit into each glass. Then he hands one glass to Ignis and raises his own. “Here’s to the start of something special.”  
  
There’s nothing innovative about the toast, but Ignis is touched by the sentiment behind it. He smiles at Gladio as they clink their glasses together, holds his gaze as he takes a sip. There’s amusement dancing in those amber eyes. Amusement, and fondness, and a heat that mirrors the hunger Ignis has been feeling of late. A pleasant shiver goes down his spine at the knowledge that Gladio wants him.  
  
“We should get this started if we want to eat tonight,” he makes himself say, gesturing to the roast as he sets his glass on the counter. “I trust you salted it before I arrived?”  
  
“Yes, sir,” Gladio says. “I triple-checked your text to make sure I didn’t fuck it up.”  
  
“Salting a roast is hardly complicated, Gladio,” Ignis says lightly. He draws a knife from the block behind the roast. “If you wash the potatoes, I’ll finish the preparations for the meat. Did you pick up the garlic?”  
  
Gladio reaches into the cupboard again and returns with a head of garlic, placing it on the counter next to Ignis. They exchange another smile, and then Ignis pulls a few cloves off the head, begins to peel them, and places them on the cutting board next to the roast. He’s all too aware of Gladio moving around behind him, but he tries to focus on his task, keeping his fingers free of the blade as he begins to slice the cloves into wedges.  
  
As they work, a comfortable silence settles between them, the lull filled by classical violins. He listens to the scrub of the brush over the potatoes, and the sound of Gladio’s voice humming along to the music, and he can’t help smiling. For the first time in a long time, he’s blissfully happy. He has everything he’s always wanted—a respectable education, a fulfilling career, a relationship with the perfect man.   
  
It’s then that a crash comes from behind him. Ignis starts and the blade slips, catching the pad of his finger. Crying out in pain and surprise, he drops the knife and clutches his hand to his chest, blood already seeping between his fingers, dripping onto Gladio’s pristine linoleum.  
  
“Ignis?” Gladio says, sounding concerned, his voice close to Ignis’s ear. “You okay?”  
  
“Yes,” Ignis says, turning to show him the wound. “My hand slipped, that’s all. Do you have any—”   
  
He freezes, his heart stuttering in his chest as he meets Gladio’s gaze, not quite comprehending what he’s seeing. Gladio’s eyes have gone black, his pupils dilating more than should be biologically possible, eclipsing the amber ring of his irises. His lips are pulled back in a snarl, his canines now sharp as needles. It’s no longer Gladio’s beloved face that looks back at him—it’s the face of a daemon, of some monstrous thing.   
  
Aghast, Ignis staggers backward, his breath caught in his throat, bouncing off the edge of the counter and knocking the cutting board to the floor. The knife spins across the linoleum, clattering against the baseboard under the cupboard across from Ignis. For a moment, he considers grabbing for it.    
  
But that would put him within Gladio’s reach.  
  
“What are you?” he breathes, backing into the living room.  
  
“Iggy,” he growls, his warm voice gone suddenly rough, “I can explain—”  
  
“Don’t come any closer!” Ignis puts the coffee table between them, but it seems like a flimsy shield as Gladio—all six towering feet of him—comes around the kitchen island toward him. “ _Stay where you are_!”  
  
To his credit, Gladio freezes, but now he’s between Ignis and the door. There will be no getting past him. Ignis has ample skill in the martial arts, but he could never hope to take on a Shield and succeed.  
  
“I’m not gonna hurt you,” Gladio tries again, holding out a hand like he’s trying to soothe a wild, frightened animal. “Fuck, Ignis, just listen—”  
  
Hearing Gladio’s voice come out of this thing’s face is too much. Ignis has never believed in monsters, but he believes what his eyes can see, and the evidence is plain in front of him. Gladio isn’t human. Perhaps he’s a daemon wearing a human’s face. Ignis glances over his shoulder at the window overlooking the boulevard, looking for a fire escape and finding none.  
  
“Ignis,” Gladio tries again.  
  
“Don’t move!” Ignis takes a step back, toward the window. Perhaps the apartment below has a balcony he can drop down to. “I’ll jump.”  
  
“We’re six stories up,” Gladio says. “The fall will kill you.”  
  
“And you won’t?” Ignis shoots back.    
  
Gladio growls. “I just said I’m not gonna hurt you.”  
  
“Then prove it.” Ignis swallows, unable to look away from Gladio’s depthless, inhuman eyes, horrified and transfixed. “Let me go.”  
  
“If you’d let me explain—”  
  
“I don’t want to hear it!” Ignis snaps. As much as he wants to believe there’s a reasonable explanation, he can’t take that chance. Not when he’s caged in Gladio’s apartment. Not while Gladio looks like _that_. “Let me go, and we can both forget this ever happened.”  
  
Perhaps he imagines it, but something like hurt flashes across Gladio’s face before he nods resignedly. Slowly, he steps aside, back into the kitchen, leaving the entryway clear for Ignis to pass through. Ignis only hesitates for a moment before he bolts, grabbing his jacket from the coat stand and escaping through the door, to freedom.

  
*

  
On Saturday, Ignis briefly debates quitting his job. The thing he saw haunts him, depriving him of sleep and his sense of safety. He keeps the blinds drawn, expecting at any moment to turn and find Gladio’s twisted face scowling at him through the glass. It keeps him up all night, huddled on his couch with a lukewarm cup of tea, tortured by the memory of Gladio’s eyes going cold and dark as obsidian.  
  
But he ultimately decides it would be foolish to relinquish such a prestigious position because of one man ( _who might not be a man after all_ , he tells himself, over and over), and perhaps his eyes deceived him. Was the wine he shared with Gladio more potent than he thought? Was it a trick of the light, catching Gladio’s eyes the wrong way? Or was it all just a dream, a nightmare caused by stress and overwork?  
  
If only. One look at the bandage on his finger disabuses him of that possibility.

  
*

  
On Sunday, he feverishly scours Eosweb for reports of daemons that can masquerade as men. His searches turn up nothing, however, except forums full of reassurances that the Wall continues to keep the hordes out of Insomnia. Defeated, he closes his laptop and accepts that the truth about Gladio may be forever beyond his understanding.  
  
That night, he dreams about sharp teeth grazing his throat, teasing, inviting, persuading. When he wakes, it isn’t in fear, but rather confusion, and an ache his own hand can’t quite satisfy.

  
*

  
On Monday, he returns to work, apprehensive about the possibility of encountering Gladio in the halls of the Citadel. But Gladio is nowhere to be found. Perhaps, like Ignis, he is avoiding the corridors where they are most likely to meet.    
  
Ignis isn’t sure whether he’s hurt or relieved.

  
*

  
It only takes him a few days to make a decision. He tracks Gladio down the following Friday evening at his favourite coffeehouse.  
  
Ignis spots him at once, perched at a table near the back of the cafe, a teacup at hand and a notebook open in front of him, wholly focused on the poet reciting verses on-stage. Looking at him, Ignis can almost forget the scene that transpired between them at Gladio’s apartment only a week ago. There’s nothing unusual, nothing monstrous, about his face—it’s beautiful, as usual, though hardened now in concentration.   
  
That familiar longing wraps its fingers around his heart. He takes a deep breath and moves toward Gladio’s table.  
  
Gladio glances up as he approaches, his eyebrows rising in surprise. They look at each other for a moment in silence before Ignis gestures at the empty chair and says, “May I?”  
  
“Sure,” Gladio says.   
  
Ignis sits, removing his gloves and placing them on the table. There’s another long silence as they regard each other, Ignis calculating, Gladio wary. Finally, Ignis sighs and sits back in his chair.  
  
“You said you could explain,” he says. He swallows, still not sure he’s ready to hear what Gladio has to say, but brave regardless. “So tell me what I saw. Tell me what you are.”  
  
Gladio lets out a breath and glances around the room—ostensibly to ensure no one will overhear—before he leans across the table. “How do I know you’re not gonna freak the fuck out on me again?”  
  
“I apologize for my behaviour at your apartment,” Ignis says. “But can you blame me? One minute you were you, and the next—”  
  
“A vampire,” Gladio cuts in. Ignis must look stricken, because he glances around again and adds, more quietly, “I didn’t mean to let you see that side of me. It was just…”  
  
“My blood,” Ignis says, his heart pounding. Of course. It makes sense. Gladio wasn’t expecting Ignis to bleed all over his kitchen, and, in turn, he couldn’t stop his body from reacting to it. But how can it be true? Gladio is nothing like the creatures he’s seen in the movies—his flesh is warm, he goes outdoors in daylight (albeit in the shade), and he appears in several dozen photos Ignis keeps on his phone. “And you expect me to believe this?”  
  
“Believe what you want,” Gladio says. “It’s the truth.”  
  
“Then how did you get this way?”   
  
“It’s a long story. Let’s just say my dad and the king made a deal with the gods, and there were some unexpected consequences,” Gladio says.  
  
“The _king_?” Ignis hisses.  
  
“Yeah. The prince, too.” Gladio traces a ring of water on the tabletop with one finger. “And me, my dad, and my sister. But it’s just the five of us. Far as I know, we’re the only ones with this affliction.”  
  
It’s nearly too much to take in, but it all makes a horrible kind of sense. Ignis no longer has to wonder why the prince always sleeps so late, or why his skin is always the colour of milk, despite all the vegetables Ignis sneaks into his smoothies. He no longer has to wonder why the royal family rarely makes public daytime appearances, or why they’re so secretive.  
  
“How old are you, then?” he asks.   
  
“I’ll be seven hundred and four in April.”  
  
“Seven hundred and four?” Ignis repeats, head spinning.  
  
“Yeah.” Gladio cracks a grin, though it verges on sardonic. “I look pretty good for a relic, don’t I?”  
  
Ignis can’t deny that. Despite what he knows, Gladio is still beautiful. Ignis still wants to hold his hand and kiss his lips, and some traitorous part of him wants those things even more, now that he knows what he knows about Gladio. Because Gladio isn’t just the nice man who flirts with him so sweetly and talks to him about books over the lunch hour. There’s a new edge to him. A danger. He’s a man, yes, but there’s something ancient and feral and untameable inside of him, and Ignis is as drawn to it as he is to Gladio’s mind and heart and body.   
  
He pictures Gladio kissing his throat, only now he wonders what it would feel like to have those needle-sharp teeth pierce his skin.  
  
“Were you planning to bite me that night?” Ignis asks quietly.  
  
Gladio’s expression doesn’t change, but his hand curls into a fist on the table, squeezing so hard his knuckles go white. “No. Of course not.”  
  
“Then what did you want from me?” Ignis demands.  
  
“The same thing everyone else wants from the person they’re dating.”  
  
“Meaning?” Ignis presses.  
  
“To cook you dinner,” Gladio says, enunciating slowly and clearly, as if Ignis is some kind of simpleton, “and watch a movie with you on my couch. Maybe make out a little.”  
  
Ignis looks at him expectantly. “And then?”  
  
Gladio shrugs. “I was gonna ask you on a second date, if you were up for it.”  
  
“So you had no designs on my life?”  
  
“C’mon, Ignis, this is insulting,” Gladio growls.  
  
“Please just answer the question.”  
  
Gladio shakes his head, letting out an exasperated breath. “No. If I wanted to kill you, I could’ve done it a hundred times already.” When Ignis doesn’t say anything, he goes on: “Look, I’m just as human as you are. Only difference is I have to drink blood every so often, otherwise I get weak. I don’t go around killing randoms, if that’s what you wanna know, and I sure as hell don’t ever intend to.”  
  
“Then whose blood do you drink?” Ignis asks.  
  
“Animals, mostly,” Gladio answers. “And I’ve been with people in the past who let me drink from them.”  
  
“Oh?” Ignis says, tilting his head.  
  
“Not enough to kill them. Just enough to get what I needed.”  
  
Ignis nods, absorbing this information. Choosing to be with Gladio would be like putting his head in the crocodile’s mouth, so to speak, and yet he _wants_ to do it, despite the protests of his rational mind. It’s easy to believe Gladio’s a good man. It’s easy to believe all those weeks he spent wooing Ignis were genuine. A part of him knows Gladio would never have wasted so much time on him if he wanted anything from Ignis other than his company. He licks his lips and glances up at Gladio, finding himself being watched.  
  
“And if I…offered to be one of those people?” he says haltingly.  
  
Gladio’s lips part in surprise. “What are you saying, Ignis?”  
  
“I suppose I’m saying…” Ignis swallows, reaching out to touch Gladio’s hand where it lies on the tabletop, reassured by the warmth of his skin. “That if you would like to pursue a relationship with me, I…wouldn’t be opposed. If you can stand to spend another minute in my company, of course, after what happened last Friday.”  
  
“I mean, yeah, it sucked,” Gladio says, curling his fingers around Ignis’s hand, “but I get why you were freaked out. I wouldn’t hold that against you. But Iggy, are you sure?”  
  
Ignis nods. “I’ve had a lot of time to think. I was afraid at first, but I can’t seem to stay away from you. So perhaps a second date is in order.” He smiles a little, venturing to tease. “In a well-lit place, with a crowd. These are my demands.”  
  
Gladio laughs at that. “I’ve been meaning to get down to the gallery to see the surrealist exhibit. That crowded enough for you?”  
  
“Yes, I think so. And if we still like each other by the end of it, perhaps I’ll invite you up to my place for a nightcap.”  
  
Ignis says it with a hint of a promise. And when Gladio grins at him, one sharp tooth dimpling his lip, he embraces the thrill of anticipation that shivers through him.


End file.
